Adams, bastard, bitch, bloody, butt, chest, children, corpse, creep, daughter, dead, duck, family, fantasy, fetish, fiction, fuck, George Saunders, grave, hair, hairy, kids, kitchen, man, molest, moron, mother, paragraph, pedophile, rape, red, room, Saunders, Scooby, sexual, short, short story, son, underwear, undies, wonk, writing, X-ray, yak
An adaptation of George Saunders’ Adams (the podcast can be found here). The prompt was to write something using the image of the ‘man in the red underwear’, and to stay as close to the voice as possible.
So there’s a man in my kitchen. There’s a man in my kitchen in red underwear facing my children’s room! Thank God the door is closed where my children are asleep, although I wouldn’t put it past the creep to be able to X-ray my kids through the door. Now Brian, he would be asleep in his Scooby Doo shirt, and the underwear dude would just stare past Scooby’s eyes at the thin hair on my little boy’s chest. The moron, doesn’t he know that the real hairy bit will start after puberty? Oh well, what could you expect from someone who wears red undies.
So he’s standing in my kitchen in his red underwear because he has a fetish for my son. I taught Brian well, he’d kick this creep’s red-clad ass. But then, what about my little girl? She’s just asleep in there, unaware that this guy is standing outside the closed door undressing her with his eyes. Poor Ashley, just seven and getting molested by a pedophile in red underwear! I could just kill that motherfucker! Thank God my mother is dead, else he would’ve raped her too. Like he’s doing to my daughter. Oh dear God he’s raping my daughter.
So I wonk him in the back of the head. I wonk him real good. Wonk. That’s for having sexual fantasies about my son. Wonk. That one’s for harassing my daughter. Wonk. That’s for wanting to make out with my dead mother.
Down he goes, sits on his knees. He takes a deep breath and it’s like he’s forcing his chest hair in my crotch. His chest hair would give a yak a run for its money, and I’d much rather have the yak against my crotch than this sick bastard’s chest with his weird fantasies about my kids and my dead mother and his red underwear. I could just hit him in the balls hidden under the redness and see how much more red it goes. If you ever touch my kids, I say. If you ever come close to my mother’s grave.
I am what I am, he says.
Oh bloody fuck. He’s admitting he wants to molest my children and fuck with my mother’s corpse. So I wonk him again. And again. And again. And – he ducks. Son of a bitch, he ducks.
How dare he duck? Him, facing my children’s room and wanting my dead mother and wearing red underwear, and he ducks? I’ll teach that bastard a lesson.
So I reach over and run my hands over the red fabric covering what I assume is a hairy butt, and without warning, I pull his red underwear down. I turn to face him, that part of him without his red underwear. Bloody fuck, I could’ve hidden both my kids and my mother and myself under there.